


#38: Never Push Someone Off A DOck

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Series: 100 Rules for Adults (That Clint Barton Never Learned) [38]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hospital, Major Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Near Drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 04:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3797491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson's injured, Clint's in crisis mode, and someone needs to tell him to stand down before he falls down.</p><p>He falls down anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#38: Never Push Someone Off A DOck

“Agent Barton, we’ll be landing in 19 minutes,” the pilot said over the intercom.

Clint nodded, though he had no way to respond, his eyes not leaving Coulson’s prone form, hooked up to far too many machines with two medics standing by on one of SHIELD’s long distance emergency medical transports. His eyes felt gritty and heavy, and he ached all over, but he wouldn’t let himself rest until they were secure. Sure, the medics were also trained SHIELD employees, and they were currently at 5500 feet (and beginning the descent), and besides the pilot, co-pilot, and medics, all SHIELD agents, Clint and Coulson were alone on the flight. Their backup and recovery team had been left behind to clean up the mess the op had turned into.

Besides, every time he’d closed his eyes in the last49 hours, all he’d been able to see was Coulson getting shot, stumbling back with the force of it, before getting kicked off the end of the dock, and falling through ice that had been thinner than they’d been led to believe by both their own intel and the locals. 

Okay, so he hadn’t actually seen it happen, too busy trying to keep himself from getting shot by the group they’d been sent to infiltrate, but he didn’t need to be a Stark-level genius to figure out what had happened based on the injuries. 

Coulson’s lips had been blue by the time Clint had pulled him from the water, and he hadn’t been breathing, although, by some small mercy, he wasn’t bleeding, thanks to the ultra-light-weight body armor he wore under his hillbilly hunter disguise. His basic medical training had kicked in while he called for evac and then an ambulance to get Coulson to a hospital because he hadn’t been breathing and he was too still but his heart had been beating and…

“Agent Barton?”

Clint jerked, looking up into the understanding eyes of one of the medics. 

“We’re making our final approach, sir. You need to return to one of the regular seats.” She pointed toward the two rows of standard seats just ahead of where Coulson’s gurney was secured. There were only two jump seats, and the other medic was already strapping himself in.

Clint nodded and rose on legs he wasn’t sure would hold him (had he eaten in the last 48 hours?) and stumbled toward the closest seat, turning to watch over his shoulder as the medic checked Phil’s lines, tubes, monitors and restraints one last time before taking her seat.

His fingers were unsteady as he fastened himself in.

“Clint?”

He jerked himself back to awareness (he was losing time and that wasn’t good he was going to need to sleep soon and…)

“Clint.”

It took a long moment for him to focus on Fury. “Sir,” he responded hoarsely. The plane was quiet around them. “Coulson?”

“Already being evaluated in medical, though preliminary report from Dr. Davies is that the locals did a good job and he’s stable. Honestly, right now I’m a little more worried about you,” Fury responded, his gruff voice on the softer side.

“Sir?” Clint asked again, unable to put together a more coherent question.

“Stand down, Agent,” Fury ordered gently. “Sitwell has the watch while I get you through medical, and Hill is up after me,” he recited.

“Debrief?” Clint asked, his fingers fumbling at the catch for the seatbelt. Fury nudged his hands aside and dealt with it himself. 

“It can wait. We got your preliminary report and Agent Montoya has already made contact,” Fury said, moving the seatbelt out of the way before stepping back. “You did good, Clint. There isn’t much left to be done on the ground, and right now, you need to get to medical and then get some sleep.”

Clint nodded and urged himself to move. He got to his feet and took an unsteady step, saved from falling on his face by Fury’s quick reflexes. “Can walk,” Clint protested as Fury led him down the aisle to the door where Clint knew a ramp would be waiting. 

“Yeah, no,” Fury said wryly as they shuffled along. “The medics told me to bring a wheelchair,” he warned.

Clint’s knees held up long enough for them to reach the bottom of the ramp, and then they went out from under him as the world went dark.

He woke to a dimly lit room, the familiar scent of hospital antiseptic and sounds of monitors greeting him. Beyond the hospital sounds, it was quiet, and Clint mentally took stock. There was an IV in his left arm, and a heart monitor on his finger. He wasn’t drugged, though, at least not with morphine. He glanced up and back and skimmed the label on the bag attached to the pole. Fluids.

Carefully, he eased himself up so he was sitting, groaning as the bruises made themselves known. Clint pressed the call button to let the staff know he was awake before he swung himself carefully around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side. 

Someone had changed him out of his filthy field uniform and into clean sweats and a t-shirt. The absence of a hospital gown likely signaled they weren’t going to make him stay. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and winced at the oily grittiness under his fingertips. 

“Good to see you awake, Agent Barton,” the nurse greeted him. 

“How long was I out?” he croaked, his throat dry. 

“Thirty-four hours,” she said, pulling up his chart and making notes while glancing between him, the monitor, and the chart. “We didn’t sedate you,” she rushed to continue. “It was all you. You’re getting fluids and a mild painkiller, and as soon as the bag is done, about twenty minutes, you’re free to go,” she reported. “You know the protocol for treating bruises and abrasions.”

Clint nodded. “Agent Coulson?” he asked as he swung back around, folding his legs under him to sit cross-legged in the center of the bed, hiding the grimace at the stretch of muscles that hadn’t been cooled down properly and then rested for far too long. 

“Out of surgery, awake, and being his normal charming self,” she said dryly. “I’ll be back in fifteen or so,” she said, replacing his chart before she left.

Clint sighed in relief. He was glad Coulson was going to be okay. It was by far not the first time an op had gone completely FUBAR on them, but it was the first time Clint could recall Coulson being seriously injured. He shivered at the memory of the icy water and the blue tinge to Coulson’s lips as Clint had pulled him back to the dock.

“Cheese.” The sigh came as the door opened and Clint glanced over to see Coulson shuffling through, clutching his own IV stand, looking pale, shaky, and oddly frail as Fury shadowed him, close enough to be of use if Coulson stumbled. “I told you he was fine. Now, will you please get your stubborn ass back in bed? You got out of major surgery to remove fluid from your lungs fifteen hours ago.”

Coulson shot Fury a glare, and Fury sighed, massaging over his eye patch with one long middle finger. Coulson rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Clint. 

“Sir?” Clint asked, returning the studying gaze. 

“Thank you,” Coulson rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

Clint was tempted to be flip, to shrug it off, but he could read the sincerity in Coulson’s form, and the anxiety that still rippled around the edges of Nick Fury. So he swallowed the glib remark about it all being part of the service, or how he needed to be faster on his feet next time, or how next time he had to do mouth to mouth he’d better get a drink first and nodded his affirmation.

Coulson returned the nod, then gestured imperiously toward Fury. Clint couldn’t quite bite back the snort of laughter at Coulson, in sweats and a hospital gown, a robe loosely draped over his shoulders, looking for all the world like he was giving Fury permission to escort him.

“Check-in in twenty-four hours, Barton,” Fury said over his shoulder as he held the door for Coulson to shuffle through. “But you’re on leave.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint responded. When the door shut behind them, Clint settled back on the bed, relieved at having seen Coulson upright to back up the nurse’s word. He unfolded his legs and closed his eyes, drifting back to sleep.


End file.
